Breath
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Whumptober day 18 & 19: Asphyxiation and Tear stained. Charlie's day goes from bad to worse when he gets surprised in the kitchen.


A_/N: it's late. I'm tired. This was a hard fic to write. I think it's because asphyxiation cuts just a little too close to the line of actually killing a character in a fic. In whump, it's important to me that the character survives all the way to the end of the story. Warnings for asphyxiation. Obviously. _

Honestly, he was grateful to be alone for the night.

It'd been kind of an awful day, and he was more than happy to put it behind him and go to bed. He'd started on a sour note when he went to collect the breakfast tray from the man they were holding in the cells and took a full glass of milk to the face.

Which was not amazing, and he had to put his blazer in to be dry-cleaned, or risk smelling like sour milk for the foreseeable future. Matthew had let him into the station to stay around and do paperwork, but he was put on desk duty until the end of the week when his blazer was clean. Which was awful.

What was even more awful was the fact that Danny wasn't even around to listen to him complain. His so-called best mate was out in the car, taking full advantage of being able to take calls that should have been Charlies, and gleefully recruiting Peter Crowe to come with him; probably to tell him embarrassing stories about the days he had more ambition than brains.

Bill Hobart was no fun to talk to on the best of days, just one of those people whose every conversation came back to The Queers and The Blacks or whatever group of people he was annoyed with this week. Usually, said group had not done anything to him bar exist. Today, the group of choice was women, specifically, women who had jobs after being married. His eyeball appeals to Lawson had resulted in no assistance.

When he finally made it home, having to catch a lift with the Boss, because Danny had taken his bike and Charlie was not about to risk his neck for the temporary pleasure of the wind in his hair. Back home, Lawson left to go see Doctor Harvey, and just when Charlie thought he might be able to spend the night complaining to Danny about his day over dinner he got hit by another bombshell.

"Sorry Charlie, I don't have time to listen to you bitch about your day, I've got a hot date with a girl from the bike place."

And for some reason, this annoyed him more than anything else that had gone down.

He opted not to linger on it, and rolled over onto his stomach. Of course, Blake and Jean had taken this weekend to go to Melbourne so Blake could give expert testimony. He knew for a fact that they were going to come back, that the whole vanishing for two years thing had been a one time deal. But it didn't make him any less uneasy.

Maybe that was what was keeping him up?

He rolled onto his stomach and pulled his pillow into his arms. He had two here, which was something of a luxury. Back home, he'd only ever been allowed one, unless Ray took it. At least his Mum had been willing to listen to him complain about his day. He hadn't meant to spend the whole phonecall complaining about the price of dry cleaning and being abandoned by his best friend, but she claimed not to mind and just to enjoy talking with him.

Yeah, right.

The room suddenly felt very still. He'd closed the window; it looked like rain earlier. He got up, and walked to the window, looking out. No rain. But the room was grossly humid, so he opened the door into the hallway. The air outside the room he'd been stewing in was cooler. Felt good on his face.

Well, he was the only one home. No fear of bumping into anyone if he went into the kitchen for a drink of water. Or a cup of tea. Or a hot chocolate. And a biscuit. He usually would avoid eating after dinner; he didn't want to give the impression he was taking advantage of the fully stocked kitchen. But if there was no one there to see him, and plenty of other men in the house to blame, it wasn't the end of the world. He didn't bother grabbing the green robe Lawson had given him from the back of the chair as he might usually, just padded down the stairs and into the hall barefoot.

He heard a rustling in the kitchen but assumed it was probably an open window. He had locked up, but he hadn't gone around checking all the windows. Damn, he'd have to do that before he went back up to bed. Maybe while he was there he could take stock of the evidence that Blake had decided to steal from the station.

Didn't matter how many years passed between 1959 and now, old habits died hard. He wasn't a petty person (though Danny may argue the opposite) but he wanted to see the mother fucker who threw milk on him go away. Away from him, especially. But sifting through old blackmail pictures didn't seem like a very fun late-night activity.

It wasn't a dark evening, the moon was bright outside the window, so he didn't feel compelled to turn on a light. Lost in thought, he stepped into the kitchen, and the light was gone. His brain took several long moments to catch up to his senses and he realized not only was the light gone, so was the air.

He reached up with both hands to grab whatever was on his face, and he actually managed to grab the hand of a person. The thing around his head suddenly tightened against his throat, and he realized something very very bad was happening. He scrabbled furiously against the hold on his neck, trying to get away from the darkness on his face, or dislodge the person holding him.

There was no budging from the person holding him, except for the fact that they were now attempting to shush him as he tried to squeeze noise from his compressed throat. His lungs were already burning from the lack of air. What the fuck was going on? Why were there people waiting in the kitchen? Why were they strangling him?

Confusion, panic, and fear all swirled furiously in his stomach, enough to almost make him sick. He kept gasping against his will, and the noise he was making was honestly atrocious. He sounded like a dying whale of some kind, before the bag tightened further and he stopped being able to make noise altogether.

His chest burned like fire, and his brain felt like it was trying to burst free from the top of his skull. He scrabbled at his wrists, the small amount of light coming in through the thing over his head was going spotty.

Play dead.

He did. Just flopped, lifeless. Maybe they'd let up on the pressure if he was down? If they thought he wasn't a threat. He hit the ground, and he felt something wet on his nose. Was he crying? God, he was crying. He doesn't want to imagine what color he face was.

He anticipated oxygen when he hit the ground, and for half a second, he felt just a tiny moment of air on his face. But it was less than a second and not enough to fill his starved, desperate lungs. It was hard to tell what hurt more: the burning hot-cold feeling in his lungs as his chest kept lurching furiously, trying to find air, or the feeling of a foot landing on the thing around his neck, holding it tight and realizing that no air was coming.

No air was coming. He tried to move his arms, but couldn't. They were lead at his sides. No! No! This wasn't happening! He wasn't going to die like this!

But he was. He was going to suffocate in the kitchen of his friend's house. God, how was Jean ever going serve dinner in here again, knowing Charlie had died right here? Had Ned felt anything? Had he been lying prone like this, thinking fatalistic thoughts as he approached the very end of his rope?

He hoped not.

"Charlie!"

A rush on his face as whatever was on there came off.

"Breathe, com'on, breathe!" He received a harsh pat on his cheek. He couldn't tell if it was left or right. "It's off, you can breathe, you have to breathe!" Air rushed into his lungs, and it burned as much as being starved of it. He tried to push his way out of whatever was confining him but found he still didn't have control over any of his limbs. He was too desperate to breathe to take in anything around him.

"That's a good lad." He heard above him, as he blinked, taking stock that he was alive. His brain came back to him in parts. He was still on the floor in the kitchen, but not lying on it. His upper body was cradled tight against someone else, and he could hear them breathing. It was warm where the arms were touching him. His brain felt like television static.

He realized that his legs were blocking the doorway to the room, but couldn't, or maybe wouldn't move them. Might cost too much of the air he was now breathing. His bare feet are cool in the air. But he was breathing. Normally, well, not normally, he was still gasping like a fish on land.

When he was a kid, his father would take him fishing. He'd catch one, hold it just long enough so Charlie could see it then chuck it back into the water. He felt like that poor fish, and whoever was holding him was the curious child.

"Just breathe, Charlie. You're alright. It's alright. I'm here." Then, he felt a warm hand brush tears away from his eyes. He was grateful, they were the sticky sort of tears that caught on your eyelashes. Why was he crying?

Must be Blake. He can't imagine anyone else talking to him in that tone. He hates it but loves it. Makes him feel like a patient. Makes him feel like a child. Makes him feel, against his will, loved.

"They got away." Said a voice from the door and Charlie gave a half-hearted attempt to look at them, but the arms holding him insisted he should stay where he was. Where he was, was actually pretty comfortable, so he didn't fight it. If Blake wanted to sit on the floor with him, he wasn't going to fight it. He was sure his legs would still be dead weight if he attempted to use them.

"Charlie, this is very important. Do you have any idea how long that bag was over your face?"

He shook his head no, he didn't. But he knew it must be less than five minutes because he'd woken up. He read somewhere once that the human brain could only be without air for four minutes before damage set in. He felt like his brain was slow, but catching up to him. He tries to voice this, and manages to croak like a sick frog. Blake gasps when he examines his throat, and then clears his own.

"Okay. Do you think you can stand?" He asks. Charlie shook his head no. He didn't think it; he knew it. His hands as well. A dart of fear pierced his heart, would the feeling ever come back.

Before he has time to worry any more; Blake stands anyway, not even flinching when he has to take at least ninety percent of Charlie's weight with him. They move to the surgery, and Blake sits him up on the bed. He struggles to stay upright, fighting his instinct and trying to calm his breathing. He has the distinct feeling that someone is talking to him, but he can't make any of it out over the dead air in his brain.

Before he can fight anymore, Blake, at the speed of light, manages to get a mask over his face.

At first, he felt icy dread creep into his system but when he reached up, his arms got held against his side. He tries to fight that too, but it too weak. Charlie had no idea it was possible to feel so weak from a lack of air.

"It's oxygen." He tells Charlie, "Just breathe. Don't stop breathing. If you struggle to breathe, tell me right away." Charlie nods his assent, and Blake breaks eye contact to talk to Jean, who is in the doorway. For a second, he shut his eyes. He wanted to be calm. This was a mistake because as soon as he was in the dark, they snapped open again and he made a noise of distress that sounded just atrocious.

"Are you okay?" He asked, and he put one hand on the side of Charlie's face. Numbly, he became aware that he was still dressed in only his pajamas. He nodded yes, but Blake didn't move away, just stood there, before using his thumb to wipe away a tear off his cheek.

Had he been crying this whole time?

"It's okay, Charlie." Blake says, "It's a perfectly normal reaction. Don't fight it. Just focus on breathing."

He did his best to but ended up falling forward so his forehead was resting on Blake's shoulder. His whole body was sore, his throat burned. But he was alive and grateful to be so. He called Jean to get them a glass of water.

While she does that, he ran a hand down Charlie's back.

"Did you see anyone?" He asks. Charlie shook his head no. He was surprised, but when he tries to speak, it comes out like a creaky floorboard. "Don't try and talk, just nod." Blake orders and Charlie doesn't disobey.

"The only thing missing seems to be the pictures from the table. Did they say anything to you?" He shook his head again. Well, they did, but he has no way to articulate that he got told 'it's alright, it's going to be fine, just stop fighting.'

"Okay." Blake assures him, "It's okay. Why don't you lie up on the chair." Without having to be asked, Blake uses one arm to grab his legs and assist him in getting them up on the table. He hesitates when he got to his feet, and ran his warm hands over the icy digits. "Are your toes always this cold?"

He nods yes.

Blake picked up a blanket from the table nearby and draped it over him, tucking it over his pale, cold toes.


End file.
